


And Yes, I Swallow Glass

by lightning and a lightning bug (spoons)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Coda, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-16
Updated: 2012-07-16
Packaged: 2017-11-10 01:45:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spoons/pseuds/lightning%20and%20a%20lightning%20bug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s only when his aimless driving leads him to the entrance of the old warehouse that Stiles realizes what he’s doing. Coda to episode seven of season two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Yes, I Swallow Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Richard Siken's poem Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out.

It’s only when his aimless driving leads him to the entrance of the old warehouse that Stiles realizes what he’s doing. He thinks maybe he should be more concerned about his actions, maybe question his life choices a little bit, but he doesn’t. He hops out of his jeep instead and clatters down the crumbling steps into the depths of the warehouse.

Though it’s dark outside, the darkness inside the warehouse is somehow _more_ , and Stiles has to pause and let his eyes adjust. This room he’s familiar with— the buckled floor, the sagging ceiling beams speckled with pale yellow safety lights like the rheumy eyes of a dozen ancient spiders. A line of old trolley cars are tossed against the far wall like discarded toys. Several bench seats have been ripped from the cars and dragged across the floor to serve as seating. The benches, crumpled and moth-eaten, look pathetic in the wide-open space, and Stiles knows they’re about as comfortable to sit on as a bed of STD-riddled crack needles.

Still, he’s about to sink onto the nearest one when, seconds before his ass touches the cracked vinyl, he realizes someone has beaten him to it. Stiles prides himself on only shrieking a little as he twists his body out of the way and stumbles backwards.

“Stiles.” Derek’s voice is as expressionless as ever, but he inclines his head a fraction of an inch, which is much more of a greeting than Stiles usually gets.

“Hey, Derek. I, uh...” Stiles isn’t quite sure what to say. “I came over.”

“I noticed.” Derek’s customary brooding sarcasm is firmly in place, but if Stiles isn’t mistaken there’s a hint of uncomfortableness beneath it. He’s not exactly feeling totally at ease himself, which is partially what makes him throw up his arms and spin on the spot and let loose.

“My dad is so pissed,” he says all in one breath. “I thought he was going to have an aneurism. I mean, a restraining order? I am _so_ not that kind of guy to get a restraining order. Creepy stalker homeless weirdos gets restraining orders, not guys like me—” Stiles pauses, and glances around the abandoned warehouse before sneaking a look at Derek. His facial expression has barely changed, but Stiles knows him well enough now to pick out the slight furrow next to his right eyebrow that means he’s angry. Stiles backpedals hastily.

“Uh, what I mean is... Anyone could get a restraining order. I’m sure totally normal people get them all the time. It’s just my _dad_ doesn’t really get that, and so he’s mad as hell and Jackson was sitting there so _smug_ , and he doesn’t even get it, we’re trying to fucking _save_ him!”

Derek’s left eyebrow dips down, and Stiles knows that means the uncomfortableness has returned. His rapid babble stalls and he licks his lips.

They used to do this all the time. Well not all the time, but often enough that it was kind of a thing. Not like a Big Thing, just kind of an Occasionally Sometimes It’s Not Really A Big Deal At All kind of thing. It was never planned, and they never talked about, but every so often Stiles would show up in whatever depressingly destroyed location Derek was currently hiding out in and they would talk. Or Stiles would talk, and Derek would sit there and if not listen, at least not transform into a snarling supernatural creature and rip Stiles’ throat out. It happened often enough that it was starting to feel... normal.

And then there was this whole mess when Derek became the alpha and starting biting Stiles’ classmates and Lydia vanished in the wilderness and Stiles sort of stopped coming by for a while. He’d been struggling to deal with his own life at that time, and dealing with whatever strange relationship he had with Derek had dropped to a pretty low priority.

Of course, then the kanima decided to trap Stiles and Derek in a pool for two hours. Turns out avoiding a relationship with someone is a little difficult when you’re clutching their body to your chest and giving everything you’ve got to keep them alive. Stiles started visiting Derek again after that night, but their renewed closeness had only lasted until the moment when Derek decided Lydia was the kanima and he needed to end her life.

Stiles hasn’t been alone with Derek since that night. There had been times when he’d found himself in his jeep, driving toward the warehouse, only to pull over and put his head down on the steering wheel, drawing in deep breaths as he thought about what it would look like to see Derek in his werewolf form, crouched over Jackson or Lydia with their blood on his hands and in his mouth.

But now... now Derek agreed to Scott’s terms, he agreed to catch Jackson instead of kill him, and Stiles is standing in front of him again and it feels terrifying but also like a relief, like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders and he can breathe again.

Except, ironically, Stiles can’t really breathe right now, because now that he’s finally let himself talk about some of the things that are bothering him his mind has started racing and maybe he hasn’t slept so much in the past few days because he’s been a little busy trying to keep _literally everyone he knows_ alive so he’s basically running on Adderall and half a bag of twizzlers.

He’s rolling his eyes and waving his hands even as he’s gasping and heaving for air, because he’s been here before and even though it seems like he’s freaking out he’s actually just kind of annoyed that after not doing this for a while he decides to come see Derek and five minutes in and what is he doing? Freaking out.

Stiles is so busy trying to get himself under control and trying to communicate to Derek that he’s got everything totally under control that he doesn’t notice Derek has stood up until he feels two firm hands close over his shoulders.

The hands push him towards the bench seat and Stiles flops onto it gratefully. Derek sits down next to him, the very picture under-controledness. One of his hands stays on Stiles’ shoulder. He leans in, close to Stiles neck, and he frowns.

“You smell like strawberries.”

It’s such an random, unexpected statement to hear come out of Derek’s mouth that Stiles barks out a laugh and it breaks through whatever emotion had a stranglehold on his lungs.

“Dude,” he says to Derek, half turning on the seat but careful not to turn so far as to dislodge Derek’s hand. “What have I told you about sniffing me?”

Derek ignores him, as usual. His eyebrows have furrowed again, but there’s a twist to his mouth that makes his emotion difficult for Stiles to interpret. It looks a lot like anger, but something about is off.

“When is the last time you ate?” Derek demands.

“Um, in the car? On the way here. I had some twizzlers.”

Derek’s mouth twists a little more. “Candy. Strawberry.”

“Yes,” Stiles says, unable to resist a little teasing. “Candy. Strawberry. Yummy. Stiles think taste good.”

“And that’s all you ate?”

“Today? Um... yeah? But c’mon you said it yourself. They’re strawberry. That’s like a fruit. Pretty sure that’s on the food pyramid, and in one of the big green parts not the sad grey one at the top that they teach you leads to nothing but shame and dying alone and unloved.”

Yeah, that’s definitely the angry face now. Stiles isn’t entirely sure what’s causing it, so he tries a smile because that almost always gets him some sort of response, even if its the response of Derek threatening him with bodily harm.

“So what did _you_ eat today?” Stiles asks.

“You haven’t slept in days,” Derek all but growls.

“That doesn’t exactly answer my ques—”

“Stiles.”

Derek’s angry face has softened slightly back into that other emotion Stiles can’t figure out, and suddenly he finds himself unable to meet Derek’s eyes. He drops his gaze to his lap and pulls at a loose thread near the zipper of his hoodie.

“It’s been a rough couple of days,” he admits quietly. “Obviously.”

Derek pointing out Stiles’ lack of sleep makes him aware of just how exhausted he is. He doesn’t resist in the slightest when the hand on his shoulder tugs him backwards to lean against the seat. His head droops to one side, and though there’s still several inches of space separating them Stiles can tell his cheek lines up perfectly with the curve of Derek’s shoulder.

Derek lets a few minutes pass in silence, almost as if he is waiting to speak for the exact moment Stiles starts thinking maybe he can sneak in a bit of a nap here and no one will notice. “Is this about your dad?”

“A little bit. Yeah.” Okay, so maybe there’s no longer any space between Stiles’ cheek and Derek’s shoulder. But it’s not Stiles’ fault he’s so tired and Derek’s shoulder is so broad and the t-shirt he’s wearing is so soft and smells suspiciously like the laundry detergent Stiles uses himself.

The nuzzling of his nose against the t-shirt, though, that is Stiles’ fault. He’ll own up to that one.

“It’s not your job to protect him,” Derek murmurs, his low voice vibrating through his chest into Stiles’ body.

“Yes it is,” Stiles says. The words he never says are almost out before he can stop them, but he bites his lip and keeps them in. _He’s all I’ve got left_.

Of course, Derek hears them anyway. Tension is suddenly humming through his limbs like electricity. Stiles knows he’s thinking of his own family, and the way he has no one left.

Stiles wants to do something, anything. To remind Derek of the pack he is forming, to drag Scott back here and make him repeat his promise to join up, to tell Derek that even when Stiles was avoiding him he didn’t _want_ to be avoiding him. He came back, and it should probably be a little obvious now to both of them he will always come back.

“I’m glad you didn’t kill anyone,” is what Stiles says instead. Weirdly, it seems to work. Derek relaxes slightly next to him. If Stiles didn’t know him like he does, he might classify his response as a growl, except Stiles has heard every single one of Derek’s growls, and they are never this soft, or this honest. This Stiles might go so far as to call a whisper.

“Me too.”

Derek twists his body at the same times as Stiles lifts his head, and their lips meet in the middle like they agreed upon it years ago. It starts out fairly chaste but within about a minute Stiles has his hands in Derek’s hair and he’s hitching his hips against Derek’s thigh to the rhythm Derek is setting with the stabs of his tongue into Stiles’ mouth.

Okay, so sometimes they do a bit more than talk during these little meetings. Stiles likes to pretend he doesn’t know when it started— the third time they were alone together— or who started it— Derek made the first move, but Stiles was more than willing— but it doesn’t really matter, because he doesn’t talk about it with anyone. Scott can smirk all he wants every time he talks about “studying” with Allison and make a point of leaving his box of condoms in plain sight on his desk but Stiles doesn’t feel the need to do anything similar. He doesn’t know exactly what he and Derek are doing, but he knows they’re doing it. It’s never gone further than mutual hand jobs, but to Stiles, who was very much a virgin before meeting Derek Hale, that still counts as sex.

This particular time Derek seems determined to put his tongue against every inch of the inside of Stiles’ mouth. Stiles can hardly control his body at the best of times, and Derek is more capable of reducing him to a flailing pile of limbs than anything else. One of his hands is clenched tightly in Derek’s hair, the other is skimming up his arm, over his shoulder, down his back, under his shirt. He brings up one leg, bent at the knee, but can’t decide if he wants to throw it over Derek’s lap or use it as leverage to push himself closer to Derek’s body.

Derek seems to sense his dilemma, which is impressive given the way almost all of his attention seems to be on how swollen he can get Stiles’ lips, and he solves it neatly by grabbing Stiles around the waist and hauling him up to straddle Derek’s thighs.

“Well that works,” Stiles tries to say, but Derek is still ravaging his mouth so all he manages is a moan. Derek surges forward at that, and because Stiles is a bit of a little shit sometimes and he can’t help himself, he bits down hard on Derek’s bottom lip.

Now _that_ is a growl. Derek’s _I’m-about-to-go-all-possessive-and-Alpha-on-your-ass_ growl, to be precise. Both Stiles’ shirt and hoodie are gone before he really registers what happened and Derek’s mouth is firmly affixed to the juncture between his neck and shoulder.

“Yours— oh god— yours too,” Stiles laughs breathlessly, pushing his hands under Derek’s t-shirt. Derek growls again as he pulls back, but it takes him less than a second to yank his t-shirt over his head and return to placing bright, biting kisses down Stiles’ chest. He latches on to the space right above Stiles’ heart, one hand coming up to flick at the nipple while he makes what is going to be one spectacular hickey.

And this is the reason Stiles always has to wear long-sleeves and be careful how he changes in the locker room. Derek is all about the hickeys, especially when Stiles’ provokes his aggressive side, and honestly, Stiles can’t make himself be bothered by it one bit. He loops his arms over Derek’s gloriously bare shoulders, tilts his head back, and just hangs on for the ride.

Stiles loses himself in the feel of Derek’s tongue and teeth making designs down to his stomach and the sound of Derek’s harsh pants mixing with whatever the hell the noises are coming out of Stiles’ own mouth. He doesn’t even realized how hard he’s grinding down on Derek’s lap until Derek grabs his hips to still him.

“Oh my god,” Stiles gasps. Derek’s hands are huge and hot, even through Stiles’ jeans. The denim feels unbearably tight and constricting, and now that Derek isn’t letting Stiles move it’s all he wants to do. “Holy shit, Derek.” Stiles is suddenly at the edge of his control, his filters and barriers all inexplicably dropped. “Derek, _please_.”

Derek grabs Stiles by the back of the head and hauls him into a crash of lips and tongue. It’s almost as if he’s trying to chase the taste of that word in Stiles’ mouth, so Stiles starts gasping it repeatedly.

“Please, Derek, please. Ah, fuck. Derek. Please, please, _please_.”

Stiles is pretty sure that really is a magic word, because it seems to make Derek grow extra hands. There is really no other explanation for how he is able to lift Stiles several inches above his lap, pop his fly and yank his jeans and boxers to the top of his thighs, while at the same time keeping his grip on Stiles’ head and kissing him between every word.

Stiles nearly loses all coherence as Derek wraps a hand around him and starts stroking. His _please_ s become short, high-pitched moans, and Derek’s name is nothing more than a flick of his tongue and a soft expulsion of breath. Stiles writhes in Derek’s grip, any shred of dignity or self-consciousness he had left completely destroyed by the things Derek is doing with his hand.

For his part, Derek is almost completely still, expect for the hand working Stiles and his mouth kissing and licking over Stiles’ jaw and down his neck. Stiles grabs at his arms, his shoulders, shoving his hips forward to trap Derek’s hand between both of their stomachs. Derek has iron control, and Stiles knows from his impromptu training sessions with Scott that maintaining control of your werewolf in this kind of situation is difficult to say the least. Stiles knows it means something that Derek has never once slipped when he and Stiles have been together like this, but he’s too far gone now to figure out what is.

When Stiles comes, it’s almost a surprise. He cries out and buries his face in Derek’s neck as he body shakes with sensation. Derek holds him through it, his teeth sinking into Stiles’ shoulder at the very end, harder than at any point before but still not hard enough to break the skin.

Stiles takes several deep breaths, reveling a bit in getting to be the one doing the smelling for a change, even if all his human senses can pick out is the musk of Derek’s sweat and the faint, clean smell of his aftershave. Other than that Stiles stays limp and boneless against Derek’s chest. He’s sweaty and sticky and probably heavy as all hell, but Derek doesn’t push him off.

“Give me a minute to recover,” Stiles mumbles, groping between them to find Derek’s jeans. “And I promise I’ll reciprocate, because _damn—_ ”

“No, don’t,” Derek says quickly, and he seizes Stiles’ wrist, but not before Stiles’ fingers brush against the wet spot on the front of Derek’s jeans.

“Oh my god.” Even though he’s still a little light-headed, Stiles has to sit up for this. “Oh my god, Derek, did you—”

“Don’t say it,” Derek growls.

“Did you _come in your pants_?”

Derek glares at him. The tiniest flush creeps up his neck and it’s so unbelievably adorable Stiles laughs out loud.

“Dude!” he all but squeals. “I’m the teenager here, and I haven’t even done that! I had no idea I was so hot. We should probably tell everyone we know. I’m putting it on my college application essay. I think this is an important skill I possesses. ‘Stiles is so sexy he makes big scary werewolves come in their jeans—’”

In one smooth movement Derek flips Stiles onto the floor, stands up, and starts striding across the warehouse floor.

“Ow!” Stiles calls after him, because landing on a concrete floor is a little painful, especially when his ass is still half-way out of his jeans, but he’s laughing too. He can’t see where Derek disappeared to— probably sulking in a dark corner somewhere— but he’s not worried. He lies back and gives in to happy post-orgasm feelings that have been only slightly dampened from his forced relocation to the floor.

He’s drifting in a kind of daze minutes later when Derek returns. Stiles props himself up on his elbows and surveys the man standing in front of him. Derek has cleaned himself up and swapped his jeans for track pants. Stiles doesn’t even bother to ask where he’s keeping a closet in this place.

“You know changing your pants doesn’t mean it didn’t happen,” Stiles says cheerfully. “Cause it totally happened.” He grins up at Derek, but falters at the look on his face. He’s used to Derek glaring at him in pretty much any situation, but this isn’t a glare, this is... something else.

Stiles looks down at himself to see if he can figure out what has caught Derek’s attention and— _oh_. He’d pretty much forgotten what had happened just before the delight of discovering he’d gotten Derek off just by grinding on him. His pants are still undone and everything’s hanging out, several hickeys have bloomed on his shoulders and chest, and he’s still shirtless with drying come splattered across his stomach.

Stiles blushes, and he doesn’t do it attractively like Derek. He blushes with his whole body, his skin heating all over to roughly the temperature of the sun. Hurriedly he tucks himself away and zips up his pants.

“I should go,” he says. He scans the floor for his shirt and hoodie. “Um, my clothes? Did you— no, you know what? It’s fine. I’ll go like this. I’ll just stay in the dark, and try not to look like the victim of some extremely awesome—”

Stiles didn’t even see Derek move this time. One second he is on the floor, the next he’s been scooped up in the other man’s arms and is being carried toward the trolley cars at the back of the room.

“Derek, what are you doing?” It’s supposed to be a whine but it comes out far more breathy, and when Derek doesn’t answer him Stiles finds he doesn’t feel the need to offer any more protests. It’s only a few seconds anyway, and if Derek wants to be all possessive and Alpha-y and stupidly strong— Jesus, he’s not even breaking a sweat, and Stiles isn’t _that_ small—  Stiles wouldn’t be able to stop him anyway.

Derek ducks through the empty doorway of one of the trolley cars, surprisingly careful to avoid bumping Stiles’ head or feet on the doorframe. There are bench seats in here too, torn up and rearranged to form something that looks a little bit like a bed. It’s this that Derek lays Stiles on, and it’s the exact opposite of the way he knocked him on the floor earlier. This time he’s gentle, almost reverent.

“Please tell this isn’t where you sleep,” Stiles says, because he really isn’t sure what to do about a reverent Derek. “Because this is just... pathetic. I mean, dude I have a guest room at my house and I’m pretty sure my dad never goes in there so if you need a place to crash—”

Derek cuts him off with a kiss. This too is gentler than before, a soft slide of lips and tongue that nonetheless draws a groan from Stiles’ throat. He groans again, even louder, when Derek moves his mouth down Stiles’ chest to his stomach and begins to lick him clean.

Stiles’ breath hitches in his throat; he can’t believe this is actually happening. His hands scrabble on the cheap vinyl of the seats, trying to find something to hold on to. He looks down at Derek, crouched over him and licking his skin like it’s the only important thing he’ll ever do in this world. It’s way too much to handle, and Stiles throws his head back, squeezing his eyes shut. He’s pretty sure he could come from this alone if he hadn’t only a couple of minutes ago. He’s seriously considering giving it another try when Derek gives him one more lick and all but crawls up his body to kiss him on the lips.

Stiles can taste himself on Derek’s tongue and it makes him dizzy. His hands fly to Derek’s hair and he starts to arch off the bench with a moan. Derek catches him deftly by the hip and pushes him back down.

“Give me like twenty minutes,” Stiles gasps the second Derek pulls away. “Make it ten. Ten minutes and we can go again, okay?”

“Shut up,” Derek says, but if Stiles isn’t mistaken he’s almost smiling.

Derek lies down and tugs Stiles against him, tucking Stiles’ head under his chin. He pushes and pokes until he’s rearranged all of Stiles’ limbs to his liking, Stiles’ arms folded between their bodies, one of Stiles’ legs pulled between both of Derek’s. He throws one arm over Stiles’ side and then closes his eyes, looking for all the world like he’s already deep into sleep.

“Um.” This is something they don’t really do, and Stiles isn’t quite sure how to react. “Derek?”

Derek grunts irritably as though Stiles has woken him, which is total bullshit. Nobody can go to sleep _that_ quickly, not even cranky Alpha werewolves.

“What are we doing?”

Even with his eyes closed it’s obviously Derek is rolling them. “We’re sleeping.”

“It sort of feels like cuddling.”

Derek cracks open one eye. It’s not a bad glare, even at half power. “That’s because you’re still awake.”

“I’m not quite sure of that logic. Wouldn’t—”

“ _Stiles_.”

“Okay, okay.” Stiles settles down into the bench seat, wriggling a little bit mostly on principle. He stops before Derek can scold him again, and within seconds his eyes are closed and his breathing is slowing down. Even though he’s shirtless Derek’s body heat is keeping him warm, and Stiles is surprisingly incredibly comfortable.

He can’t remember the last time he felt this safe.

That seems important, so he tries to say it to Derek, but his words come out garbled and interrupted by a yawn. Derek tells him to shush again, and Stiles decides it’s probably best to listen to him for now. 

Right before he falls asleep completely, though, he could swear he feels someone kiss him on the forehead, impossibly soft and sweet, like something out of a fairytale.

But he probably dreamed that part. Werewolves are only ever the bad guys in fairytales, and Stiles was never really cut out to be a princess.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! You can also find me on tumblr [here](http://lightning-and-a-lightning-bug.tumblr.com/).


End file.
